Born to Die
by LadyLeafling
Summary: She was an assassin by birth; her parents two stupid kids who didn't look before they leapt, joining the order because they were idiotic teenaged-runaways that were on the verge of giving life to an illegitimate child. She hadn't chosen this path. But, as much as she resented it, she couldn't see herself doing anything else. Body, mind and soul, she belonged to the Brotherhood.


**A\N: Last night, it was raining (and if you know me, you know that—to put it appropriately—I ADORE *Hem-Hem* the rain) and I was feeling pretty boss after _*spoiler alert*_ in Assassin's Creed III, so I decided to write. It was pretty late, and this is technically for a contest that my friend and I are doing—wherein we're to write about modern-day assassins; cannon or otherwise—so, it doesn't really make any sense. Or, at least, I don't think it does. Anyway, I just wanted to put one of my many perspectives of the assassins to pen and paper—and then the interwebs, afterwards—so… yeah. I don't know why I kept referring to the assassins as the _Creed_, instead of the Brotherhood. It's bugging me, but I don't want to fix it.**

**Thanks in advance to anyone who gives this a try.**

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Night settled over New York City like a thick veil of black silk. There were no stars out tonight, just wispy smoke-colored clouds barely visible against the dark firmament. The breeze was strong—shaking the nearby flag on the pole like a thin branch caught in a cyclone—and smelled heavily of seawater from the nearby ocean and tobacco from the lit cigarette that was polluting the air. The glowing amber tip of the cancer-stick stood out in the shroud of darkness that covered the abandoned rooftop, luminous like the buzzing cityscape below. Even in the dead of night, the sprawling street had yet to calm; people on foot or in vehicle, zipping around—going to-and-fro, like traveling the city was their job.

All of them ants to Swift—whether they were magnates or mailmen, socialites or school kids—as she stood quietly at the edge of the roof, foot on the ledge, peering down on everything as if she were God. In a way, she did feel like one. So many lives... so many rested upon her shoulders. Even if she had never met them any of them—and never would—she was directly responsible for hundreds… nay, _millions_ of lives. Innocent lives that the Templars wished to take and control.

As an assassin, her sworn duty was to make sure that never happened. The people deserved freedom, and that's what she pledged her life to doing; maintaining independence amongst all men and women at whatever the cost may be—even if it meant losing her own life. On another quiet night much like this, laying under the blank sky after being roughly disarmed by her mentor, with a foot crushing her sternum and constricting her airways, Swift realized abruptly that for all that she fought for not even she was not free.

That, because she was bound by blood to the Creed, she might as well have been prohibited from marrying or bearing children, as her life belonged to her work and those she served. That she was a mere tool—a vehicle for an ideal. When she failed her first mission, though it was her bones that were broken, her skin that was scarred, her blood spilled and her illusions shattered, it was the assassins who suffered. Her failures were theirs as well as her victories.

The punishment she received for failing was quick and brutal, necessary but evil all the same—a lesson that she would not forget as long as she served the Creed. Afterwards, as did the many assassins before her, Swift yielded herself completely when she could fight it no longer. Body, mind and soul, she belonged to the Creed. The many nights she lay broken and in the care of her adviser, she would close her eyes and pretend that she was one with her brothers and sisters in arms, hoping to feel connected to the Creed; like the hands of lovers or kin entwined in love and trust, instead of bound and trapped like a captive serving a life-sentence in an internment camp.

A bitter feeling settled in the pit of Swift's stomach, as she pulled the cigarette from her lips and blew a thick plume of silver smoke into the air. She was an assassin by birth; her parents two stupid kids who didn't look before they leapt, joining the order because they were idiotic teenaged-runaways that were on the verge of giving life to an illegitimate child. She hadn't chosen this path. Like a many things in her fucked up life, she hadn't gotten the choice to. But, what could she do about it? Swift was a grown woman, for fuck's sake —and approaching her Twenty-fifth birthday fast, with each increasingly frigid day—she didn't know a life other than the one she led. And, as much as she resented it, she couldn't see herself doing anything else.

Replacing the cigarette in her mouth, Swift pulled down her charcoal-black hood and carded her fingers through her hair as it was swept up in the tempest-wind. The cold bite of the breeze made her skin prickle with goosebumps and blush a light shade of pink, as blood-flow increased to keep exposed portions of her flesh from getting too cold or going numb. She shuddered, before rolling the cigarette around in her mouth with the tip of her parched tongue and inhaling sharply to fill her lungs with tar and nicotine.

Simulated serenity washed over Swift, as the cigarette affected her. The assassin stepped onto the ledge completely and balanced on the thin strip of concrete with ease; the soles of her specialized sneakers gripping onto and conforming to the ridges and fissures of the ledge, while years of practice kept her from rocking dangerously between her toes and heels, as she got into a crouching-stance.

Poised like an eagle stalking a prey, shoulders back and eyes in full-focus, in anticipation of the right moment to dive down and snapped the creature up in its claw, Swift waited. Waited until the moon started to descend the dark horizon; until she was out of cigarettes and had opted for chewing-gum instead; until her body was aching from her statuesque-posing—this wasn't some meditation ritual, however, she didn't sit outside in the chill for shits and giggles. Swift was actually waiting for someone—someone who was fucking late.

Nevertheless, it wasn't as if she could bring the target to her. In any case, Swift was to do this without drawing anyone's attention. She sighed, and grinded her teeth harshly against the thick wad of menthol-flavored gum in her mouth, as she tasted tobacco and mint warring for dominance in the back of her throat. In due time, the blood of another would stain her skin and clothes, quenching the thirst of her blade and sinking her further into the depthless cesspit of her personal moral debt. Until then, all Swift could do was wait.

And, what was the remainder of the night compared to the lifetime of waiting to feel like she belonged to the Creed?


End file.
